


At Least I'm Not As Sad As I Used To Be

by Shadowolf19



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Introspection, M/M, Missing Scene, One Shot, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 10:17:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1601243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowolf19/pseuds/Shadowolf19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There was only one Avenger gone AWOL ever since he had woken up again, and nobody, within the Agency or not, seemed to know where the hell he had disappeared to. He’d tried to tracing back his steps then, but nothing came up. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Least I'm Not As Sad As I Used To Be

**Author's Note:**

> Contains very mild spoilers for the last episode of Marvel's Agents Of SHIELD e Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

Since SHIELD was no longer SHIELD, he hadn’t had time to even stop and breathe in, breathe out to realize the whole deal, let alone to think. They had been such confused and rushed days, and furthermore, they didn’t seem to end, either. The last straw had been having to face Audrey again, for the first time in ages, and even that occasion hadn’t been a guilty pleasure or anything of that sort, but a life-saving mission. _Again_. Before he knew it, two weeks had gone by and all he could see around him was scattered pieces: of people, of beliefs, of ideals. Ward had been just the cherry on top, and honestly, he was just so tired and so defeated that the thought alone of waking up to another day like the last ten or fifteen was enough to keep him awake night after night. Which of course didn’t help his psychological recovery, something that he was beginning to lose any hope in. He was deliberately avoiding thinking about it, simply because it was a luxury he couldn’t afford, not yet at least. Not when things were still so fucked up. Seeing Maria earlier in the day had got him to say goodbye to his faith in restoring some sort of order within the Agency, something that no longer existed. She had been the last candle light to go out, for there was no way she would have abandoned SHIELD if there was even a tiny remote possibility for it to survive all of that. He couldn’t fool himself anymore: the Agency, the one he had dedicated years and years to, was no longer. The sooner he made his peace with that the better.  
Lying wide awake in bed and thinking about all of this, he felt a deep sting penetrating him, and sighed, rubbing his eyes and turning on his side. So empty inside, a dead man walking thanks to god knows what alien of sort, he just couldn’t come up with a single idea on how to go on with his life now that there was nothing left to it. And for the very first time since then, he found himself wondering if having being granted with coming back to life had really been worth it, for it had turned out to be not such an amazing gift like most of people would think. The truth was, he’d have preferred staying dead after a Norse god had stabbed him in the chest than being born again and witness the dismissal of everything he had believed in. The sole idea of SHIELD going after Captain America and treating him like a traitor was so repulsive that he could sense his stomach toss and turn against it.  
«Steve Rogers a conspirator, yeah, right…» he said out loud, and then immediately shook his head, disgusted by his own words. After he heard about his hospitalization, Phil had to restrain himself very hard to not fly to D.C. and visit him, and day didn’t go by without him regretting it. Sure thing, it wasn’t a huge deal, and in just two days the Captain was up and running again, but that didn’t make it easier on him. More than when Stark had blown up all his suits and got the reactor removed from his chest and he felt the need of calling him, you know, just to ask how things were and how he was holding up. Everyday courtesies that he could no longer access to, being a ghost and all. Frustrated by his inability to get in touch with people he admired and cared about, he’d decided to keep watching over them from the distance, something not too different from what he would often be doing before his death, under Fury’s direct orders. In his mind, he had assumed the role of the Avengers’ guardian angel. It was a good compromise, he thought, and it turned out to be something more, kind of a release which provided him with that sense of interior peace he was so desperately seeking for. In the last thirty-six months he had witnessed Stark’s (metaphorical and not) change of heart, Thor’s comeback (and soon departing again) on Earth and Natasha’s undercover missions, and now Captain America being a fugitive from SHIELD. He didn’t have any video feeds, but accurate sources had assured him of the whereabouts of Bruce Banner, currently busy in a one-month long meditation retreat in Tibet.  
There was only one Avenger gone AWOL ever since he had woken up again, and nobody, within the Agency or not, seemed to know where the hell he had disappeared to. He’d tried to tracing back his steps then, but nothing came up. After the battle of New York, Clint Barton had worked in three missions around the world, and then one random day he just went off the grid, and never came back. Phil had studied them, searching for a common pattern or anything really that could provide him with some insight, but after _months_ he just got to the conclusion that the answer wasn’t lying in there. He wish he could talk to Natasha, ask her for advice, but that was obviously out of question.  
«Where are you, agent Barton…» he mumbled, staring at the ceiling, that missing piece of his personal puzzle focusing all his thoughts on itself. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table, saw the time, 3:17, and sighed again, for he wasn’t feeling sleepy at all, even if some rest was needed so bad. Eventually he decided to stand up, and went on the balcony of his motel room to catch some fresh air, hoping that it could somehow provided him with some answers. After weeks of living above the clouds, the carburetor had finally run out of propellant, forcing them to spend a couple of days in a cheap motel in a non recommended neighborhood in Brooklyn, which was the best you could afford when all the main agencies of the country were running after you. In the chill air of the deep night, Phil sucked in a deep breath, his eyes giving a long and detailed look all around, more as a professional and old habit than because they were looking for something in particular. The view was more or less identical everywhere, with three-floors buildings lined up one against the other, occasionally giving way to a drug store, or a supermarket. He read each sign board passively, not really registering any information, and was about to head back inside when something suddenly stuck him, as in a extremely slow reaction. His eyes lied again on that last neon plank, and after just a bunch of seconds they widened in surprise, while his brain was now quickly working out his response, hit by the recognition.  
«Son of a…» he whispered, and a moment later he was already getting dressed as fast as he could, adding fake glasses and a baseball hat on to disguise himself, even if it wasn’t so necessary, given his location and the late hour. He walked fast down the road, passed three blocks, turned around a couple of corners twice, _just to make sure_ , and then he finally stopped, standing in front of the house he knew it would have been there. Getting inside the building was easy, no security cameras to worry about or night guards to ask for your ID in such area. As for the apartment door, it was job done after five minutes he had been working on it. _Thank you, SHIELD training_.  
Once inside, Phil gave a look around, and almost suddenly memories from the last time he had been standing in the same spot came back to him, and he sighed in remembering how much better those circumstances were. It was the last time they’d worked together on a mission before the whole Tesseract mission had gone underway, and things went to shit. Just a week before Clint had been assigned to be Dr. Selvig’s bodyguard, he had invited Phil over to watch the Super Bowl, and drink a beer or two to the outcome of their mission. They had a great time indeed that night, and not just because the Giants won.  
In the empty apartment, Phil sighed, and took some steps around, his eyes carefully frisking for even the tiny thing seemingly out of order, without finding any. He kept doing it again for a couple of times, looking in every single draw and box, before surrendering and letting himself on the bed, disappointed by what seemed to be a waste of time. Another one, as if all the mistakes of the past days weren’t enough. Mentally tired, he leaned his head against the pillow and rested his eyes for just few minutes, and he was about to give up and get back to his room when something started annoying him at the bottom of his head, possibly put out of his position by his turning. He grabbed the pillow and pushed his hand inside, tousling the wool searching for it. Eventually his fingers tightened around a rectangular shape, and he tried his best to not be disappointed. He was expecting maybe a pen drive, maybe a map, surely not what seemed to be a card. But the letdown lasted just a couple of seconds, because once he pulled it out of the pillow, what stood in front of his eyes was enough to give him shivers all the way down his spine. There was, wrapped in a plastic and transparent container, one of his very Captain America trading cards, still stained with the blood Loki’s scepter had drawn from his body two years ago. Phil stared at it in astonishment, feeling his throat getting tighter and tighter, and for a time he couldn’t pinpoint down his whole head stopped working, his universe stood still. For in front of him there wasn’t any secret code about Clint’s whereabouts, and it didn’t matter in the latest, because now Phil knew what the other man had been up to all these months, and it was something extremely more important. It was the archer’s personal gift to him, one that he could call a “welcome back to life” present, one that all the sudden, quickly as a snap of fingers, filled his heart back with hope, and faith, and a weird feeling that he thought he could call happiness: Clint Barton had gone off the radar because he was looking for him, and he knew the man wouldn’t stopped until his mission was achieved. It was just a matter of time.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a shipper of the couple, but a dear friend of mine is and today was her birthday so this is my present for her. The title comes from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-IJ1a36mT_w) by fun. Hope you enjoyed it!  
> P.S.: I also wanna thank all the fellow shippers who read my previous fanfic, it was so nice receiving some feedback! :D


End file.
